My brother, his wife
Nancy, myself and my wife Dr. M head for the country, 150 or so miles north of
Toronto. Land of the silver birch, home
of the…I don’t remember the rest.)
Our first stop is the camp my we used to go to. My brother met his future wife at this
camp. As did I. Not my
wife. I met his wife there too. (Guffaw.)
Snapshot reaction of my return to a camp I had gone to for
thirteen summers: The surroundings remembered
me. The buildings did not.
They couldn’t. They
hadn’t been built yet. Everything not
naturally there had been altered,
including the camp’s name after it was purchased. The Counselor’s Lounge had morphed into the
Rec Hall. The former Rec Hall was now the Arts and Crafts Building. The Mess Hall was in the same place, but it had
been rebuilt and expanded. I cannot
vouch for the food, as our visit did not include a meal, but I can imagine an
upgraded cuisine. I promised our guide,
the owner’s daughter, I would not make a face, and then I asked her how much it
costs to go there for two months. The
quoted price was almost twenty times higher than when I was a camper. Full Disclosure:
I did make a small face.
The camp’s layout was the same, and they hadn’t moved the
lake, though the water skiing area boasted six motorboats to our one. (Well two, but one was always broken.) There is no way around it; it was a fancier
camp. And their programs no longer
focused on consciousness-raising world events such as the Hungarian Revolution
(including teams like “The Workers”, “The Students”, “The Miners” and “The
Farmers.”) Instead, a camper’s mother
informed me, one recent camp-wide program involved the burning question of
where the camp owner and his wife should go on their upcoming vacation, the
competing team names representing luxury travel destinations from around the
world.
What I’m saying is, it's different.
The campers looked like I
once did – healthy but soft – and the energy felt the same, a positive vibe,
with kids waiting to go swimming group-singing songs from the show they had put
on the night before, Beauty and the Beast. I was fortunate to be introduced to the
eleven year-old who played the Beast. He
didn’t look that bad.
Overall, there was something missing in the experience. Maybe I had left my return visit too
long. Maybe I was anticipating a bigger
emotion shtoch (stab in the
heart.) Or maybe I was just jealous that,
rather than a camper, I looked more like a camper’s grandfather. Still, with all my misgivings, as my brother
noted, I appeared in no hurry to leave.
There is still something about it, I suppose. But it is apparent that a (long overdue)
“handover” is in order. The camp now belongs
fresher faces, people who are really
nine, rather than people who believe
they are.
Our temporary Northern Ontario home, the Colonial Inn, was not far away, on
Peninsula Lake. (Here’s how “not far
away.” The camp in on Fox Lake. Fox Lake empties into Lake Vernon, which
empties into Mary Lake, which empties into Fairy Lake, which empties into
Peninsula Lake. You could paddle by canoe
from camp to the inn in less than a day.
Of course, if you drive, it takes ten minutes, so we drove.
Yesterday I referenced (including a picture) “Ragged Falls”,
where I braved jagged rocks and tumbling waters for an exciting “photo
op.” The “backstory” of that picture is
that while Dr. M hiked half a mile down the hill to retrieve and return with her
phone-camera, it began to rain rather heavily, meaning I was not only in
jeopardy, I was also getting wet. Honoring
my spouse’s effort, however, I refused to seek shelter until she returned.
Wasn't that nice? I'd say so. Would I be nicer if I hadn't blown my own horn? I suppose. But how nice does a person have to be?
Wasn't that nice? I'd say so. Would I be nicer if I hadn't blown my own horn? I suppose. But how nice does a person have to be?
We stopped at Algonquin
Outfitters for a souvenir baseball cap and a t-shirt with a moose on it (although
I had canoe tripped to the Park many times and had never once seen a moose. I did see a skunk. But a t-shirt saying, "Algonquin Park - You Might See A Skunk"? You're better off touting an invisible moose.
Among Algonquin
Outfitters other offerings was a confection I had never seen before – “Ant
Candy”, which came in three flavors – apple, watermelon and banana. I mean, maybe it’s a joke but the “List of
Ingredients” – I mean, can they mess around with the “List of Ingredients”? It says it right there on the package: “List of Ingredients” – mallot syrup, ants,
artificial flavoring, and coloring.”
Truth in Advertising.
The flavoring and coloring are artificial. But the ants, apparently, are real.
And people actually buy
that?
The Colonial Inn
had visitors from as far away as Germany.
But I was more interested in my fellow Canadians. You could easily pick them out because they
said things like, “We live just across the border from Detroyit. We arrived here
early Satterday morning.”
The guy sounded weird.
Though it’s possible I once sounded the same way myself.
There’s a part of me that does not know the rest of me is
old. Apparently, my older brother is in
possession of a similar component. And
so, belying our ages – of slightly under and slightly over seventy – we hopped
into a canoe provided by the inn, me manning the bow (in front), he, the stern
(you steer from the back), and we paddled across the lake. I’d been fearful that upper back issues might
preclude such activities. But my upper
back said, “Paddling is fine. Just don’t
make me hoist heavy suitcases off of the airport carousel. That’s just asking for an appointment with the “Horse Doctor’” (my bodywork
specialist who repositions my body parts, until I do it again.)
For me, this was the highlight of our Northern
Excursion: two Jews in a canoe. Paddling peacefully on the glassy-smooth
waters of Peninsula Lake.
I wish I had a picture of that.
I’ll have to settle for the picture in my mind.
After three spirit-enriching days, we returned to Toronto,
where my friend Alan had procured two ducats for a Blue Jays-Dodgers game, at which, surprisingly, I found myself rooting
for the Dodgers, (and, less
surprisingly, the Dodgers won.) Late in the game, when the Jays had pulled ahead, the local fans,
who to that point had been acting like attendees at a “tail-gait” party where
there happened to be a ballgame going on, finally started to root. The Dodgers
went on to trounce the Blue Jays 8-3,
the lesson learned, at least according to the defeated faces of the departing
faithful, “That’s what you get for rooting.”
Early the next morning, we went to the airport, on our way
to the Indianan leg of “Our Candianan Holiday.”
Waiting to depart, the Toronto paper I was reading heralded the
wonderful news:
“Piano Stolen From
Hospital Recovered"
(See: "Our Candianana Holiday - Part Two:")
(See: "Our Candianana Holiday - Part Two:")
I wonder what the miscreants were charged with: “Grand Theft – Piano” of “Theft – Grand
Piano.”
A departing conundrum.
Something I could think about on Chickadee Trail.
3 comments:
Now that I know the effort that went into the taking of yesterday's picture, Dr. M's hiking back to get the camera and your standing out in the rain (I'm guessing it also rained on Dr. M), I'm even more impressed with that picture. And to think it was taken on a camera in a phone. Another reason to be impressed.
Hope it wasn't a poor jazz musician that stole the keys eh.
"Land of the silver birch,
Home of the Beaver,
Follow the wild goose flight,
dip dip and swing"
is, I believe, that verse.
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